


A Late Night Knock On The Door

by squidgie



Category: Donald Strachey Mysteries (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Trope Bingo Round 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 15:35:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidgie/pseuds/squidgie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Donald fails to come home one night, when Detective Bailey comes knocking on their door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Late Night Knock On The Door

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNING** : Discussion of kidnap and assault. Also, NOT BETAED.  
>  **NOTES** : This is for Trope Bingo for the prompt, "Presumed Dead". Please note - though this story is dark, it is indeed "Presumed Dead". I can rarely write sad!fic, if ever!

Timothy pads around the house instead of going bed, not sure if Donald will be coming home tonight or not.  He had left that morning, giving Timothy a toe-curling kiss and promising to be home in time for dinner.  He confessed that he only had some paperwork to do, and a meeting with someone who had emailed him the night before about a possible new case, which usually meant for an early evening.  Then, after Timothy finished a lunch briefing with his staff in Senator Platt's office, Timothy returned to his desk and found a cryptic text from Donald.  'May be late - something came up' was all it said.  
  
After Timothy checks through the front window for probably the tenth time that night, he goes to the kitchen and gets an apple, taking it and a bottle of water to the den.  As the clock turns later and later, he starts to lose focus, and decides _not_ to work on the Senator's speech for a spending bill, but instead opens up the seating chart for an upcoming fundraiser.  He's putting the finishing touches on the chart when there's a knock at the door.  
  
"Coming," he calls, getting up from the desk and heading to the door, throwing the apple core away as he traverses the kitchen.  He notices headlights through the window and shakes his head, figuring Donald was being brought home again by one of Albany's finest for rubbing _someone_ the wrong way.  _Again_.  Opening the door, Timothy sees Detective Bailey, then looks to the left and then the right, not seeing his husband.  "Uhh, Detective?"   
  
"Mister Callahan?" the detective asks, then reaches out, touching Timothy on the shoulder.  "Timothy?"  
  
It's then that Timothy notices the look on Bub's face.  "Oh dear god," he says, suddenly feeling lightheaded.  
  
Bub tightens his grip on Timothy's shoulder, grounding the man.  "Here," he says, and Timothy finds himself being turned towards the inside of the house, both of Bub's hands on his shoulders, directing him to the nearby sofa.  "Why don't we sit down..." he says, Timothy suddenly finding himself being eased back, disoriented a bit as Bub sits down next to him.  
  
Timothy takes a breath, then looks into Bailey's eyes.  "Is... Is he-?" is all Timothy manages to get out.  
  
Bub keeps his hand on Timothy's shoulder, but suddenly looks down at the floor.  It's then that Timothy takes in a jagged breath, tears suddenly welling up in his eyes.  
  
Never removing his hand, Bailey quietly explains, "We found his car in West Albany, at an abandoned warehouse.  Someone had set it on fire.  There was a body in the trunk.  It was badly burned, but-"  
  
"Badly burned?" Timothy asks.  "How do you know it's him?"  
  
Bailey gives Timothy a small nod, then quietly continues, "The body was wearing a trenchcoat, and had a wallet in the back pocket of the pants.  _Donald's_ wallet."  
  
"Just...  Just because you found Donald's wallet-" Timothy protests.  
  
Bailey sighs.  "They cleared the scene when I was there, and the body," Timothy visibly flinching at the sterile term 'body', "was taken downtown.  I called in a few favors, and got the M.E. to come in tonight.  She should be able to tell us for sure."  Timothy feels a squeeze on his shoulder.  "Would you like to come downtown, or would you rather wait here?" the detective quietly asks.  
  
Timothy squeezes his eyes shut, blocking everything out for a moment.  He takes a deep breath and said, "I think I should-" and is interrupted by the shrill sound of the telephone.  "I, uhh," he says, gesturing towards the phone.  
  
"I'll take care of it," Bailey says.  He nods as he gets up, then crosses the room and picks up the extension.  "Strachey-Callahan residence," he says.  "I'm sorry, he's not available," he adds, then says, "I'm Detective Bailey of the Albany PD.  Can I help you with something?"  
  
Bub frowns, then says, "Okay, okay.  Hold on," and hands the phone to Timothy.  As Timothy reaches for the phone, Bub says, "It's Albany Alarm.  That's all they'd say to me."  
  
Nodding, Timothy puts the phone to his ear.  "This is Timothy Callahan," he says, voice near breaking.  He clears his throat.  
  
" _Mister Callahan_ ," a sterile-sounding voice says, then asks if Timothy can give her his passcode on the account to verify his identity, which he does.  " _My name is Clarice Biscoff, and I'm calling from Albany Alarm regarding Donald Strachey's office."_  
  
"Yes?" Timothy says, somewhat impatient at the pause coming from the other end of the line.  
  
" _Mister Callahan, we received a perimeter alarm about fifteen minutes ago from Mister Strachey's office.  We called, but there was no answer.  We dispatched a unit, but the building is locked up, so we aren't able to check the office in person.  We were calling to advise you that you may want to go to the premises yourself.  Or, if you'd like, we can call the police and have them investigate._ "  The voice stays monotone, upsetting Timothy even more for some reason.  
  
"Don't bother," Timothy says, putting the phone back into the cradle.  He looks up at the detective, who's giving him a questioning look.  "That was Albany Alarm calling to say that there was an alarm that went off at Donald's office about fifteen minutes ago."  He checks his watch, then asks, "Do you think it could be related?"  
  
Bailey nods.  "Could be.  You want to come with?" he asks.  Timothy nods, and then Bailey adds, "And afterward, we could..."  
  
Timothy shuts his eyes again, blocking everything out for the shortest of moments.  "Yes," he says, not really wanting to have to go identify Donald's body at the city morgue, but resigning himself to that fact.  
  
"Okay," Bailey says, offering Timothy the minutest of smiles.  He guides Timothy out to the waiting squad car and helps him in, Bailey giving directions to the waiting uniformed officer as he straps himself in.  
  
It takes just a few minutes of driving to reach Donald's office.  The cop parks the squad car outside, Bub and Timothy getting out a beat later.  Bub looks up, Timothy following his gaze a moment later.  "Isn't that window-" he starts, then looks down, the sound of broken glass under their shoes announcing itself loudly in the stillness of the night.    
  
"Wouldn't be the first time," Timothy quietly says as he looks at the glass underfoot.  "Donald sometimes had...issues...with some of the people he'd been hired to investigate."  
  
"No, Tim," Bailey says, then reaches back into the squad car.  He grabs a flashlight, aiming the powerful beam up the side of the building, focusing on where the jagged glass shined the beam, reflecting it in multiple directions.  "This glass was broken from the _inside_."  
  
" _Inside_?" Timothy asks.  Before he realizes it, he and the detective race towards the entrance to the building, finding it locked.  Timothy hears a car door slam and turns, finding the second cop coming up behind them fast.  
  
"You," he says to the other cop, "Stay here and call for backup," the other cop nodding and instantly going to his radio.  Turning his attention back to the door, Bailey nods his head.  "I got this," Bailey says, then takes a step back.  He lifts his leg, then shoves his booted foot heavy against the glass door, shattering it instantly.  He gently pulls his leg out, then reaches into the hole, twisting a lock on the inside as the building's alarm system starts to sound.  "Stay behind me," he says as he opens the door, pulling his gun from beneath his coat.  
  
Timothy does as he's told, and follows the detective down the darkened corridor and up a flight of stairs, coming to a stop outside of Donald's second level office, the only light shining through the frosted class on the door coming through the office from a nearby streetlight.  Bailey looks back at Timothy, then nods.  He steps in front of the door, trying the nob, giving Timothy another nod when he finds the doorknob unlocked.  
  
Bailey straightens up, throwing the door open as Timothy holds back, hearing the burly man yell, "Police!" as he bursts into the room.  It takes a second before Bailey leans back out and says, "It's clear," Timothy joining him in the room, finding it a complete mess.  "Jeez," the detective says.  
  
Timothy takes in the mess of the room as Bailey heads into the office's second room.  He hears something, but his focus is off.  "I'm sorry, Detective?" he calls.  
  
Bailey comes back to the doorway.  "I didn't say anything," he replies.  And that's when Timothy hears it again.  A silent groan of some sort, coming from somewhere near he far wall, underneath the broken window.    
  
Timothy is across the room in an instant, leaning over Kenny's desk and looking down to find, " _Donald_!?"  
  
He realizes that he nearly screamed, but doesn't care.  Lying on the floor, hidden by the desk, is Donald Strachey, bound nearly from head to toe with duct tape, a dust of glass shimmering from the streetlight outside.  Timothy is by his side, reaching for Donald's head as he again calls, "Donald?  _Donald_?  Can you hear me?" earning a louder groan from the man as Timothy sits down by Donald's side.  
  
Looking at him, not only is Donald nearly mummified by the silver tape, but his mouth, ears, and eyes are covered as well, leaving just his nose free.  "Darling?" he asks, this time paid back as Donald leans his head onto Timothy's lap, an obvious groan of appreciation coming from the man a beat later.  "Detective?" Timothy calls.  He finally tears his attention away from Donald - who until 90 seconds ago he thought was dead - back to the cop, finding him barking into the radio for an ambulance.  
  
"Oh, Donald," Timothy says, then leans down, minding the flecks of glass and pressing a kiss to an untaped section of Donald's head.  "Donald, Donald, Donald..." he says.  
  
Donald just replies with two groans in quick succession.    
  
Smiling, because years of being with the man has taught Timothy all of Donald's inflections, Timothy just replies, "I love you, too, Darling."  
  
~*~*~  
  
"So _who_ was in the car, again?" Timothy asks a newly unmummified Donald as they sit in the brightly light hospital room, waiting to hear from both doctors _and_ the police.  
  
Donald shakes his head.  "I don't know his real name," he replies.  "This guy...  I've seen him a couple of times before, but just - you know - in passing.  He just showed up at my office this afternoon, after I'd met with a brand new client; some bigwig with deep pockets that wants me to investigate his business partners...  Anyway, this guy shows up, so I get up and ask what I can do for him.  He just said, 'This'll be fun.'"  Donald shakes his head.  "I think he tased me...  Next thing I know, I wake up, covered in fucking _duct tape_ , hearing you calling for me."  
  
"So..." Timothy starts, then looks up when he hears footsteps approaching the room, detective Bailey entering, giving both Timothy and Donald a smile before pretending to bluster, as he always does when dealing with the fallout of one of Donald's cases.  
  
Clearing his throat, Bailey looks down at the folder he's holding, then reports, "His name was Clark Davidson.  His name may sound familiar, because he was in the papers a few months back for attacking a local car dealer.  Tied the man up, locked him in a bathroom, then started going around town, pretending to be him.  Ended up in the psych ward of Albany General for a few weeks.  Turns out, he's got a pattern of doing this.  Old Fred from Fred's Fine Used Cars was just the latest."  
  
"So why Donald?" Timothy asks.  
  
Bailey shrugs his shoulders.  "Don't rightly know.  Clark's M.O. was apparently to fixate on someone for a few weeks, then incapacitate them in some way and try and take over their lives.  He'd get caught, then spend some time in either jail or the hospital - _or both_ \- and then start all over again."  
  
"Why's he _dead_?" Donald asks, voice not hiding the anger that Timothy could nearly feel pouring off the man.  
  
"That," Bailey says, shaking his head again, "we _don't_ know.  We're going through a list of your old cases now, matching them up with recent parolees.  We'll see if we can get a lead on it.  Whoever it was apparently found Clark and believed him when he said he was you.  The M.E.'s done with the autopsy preliminaries.  Apparently Clark was shot first, then stuffed in the trunk, and the car torched."  
  
"I loved that car," Donald says, Timothy knowing Donald is only joking.  He leans over, planting a kiss onto Donald's forehead.  Donald accepts the kiss, then raises a hand to Timothy's chin and guides Timothy down into a passionate kiss.   
  
They only break apart when they hear footsteps of someone else approaching.  Timothy and Donald look up to find Bailey suddenly very interested in the IV tubing stored on a nearby tabletop, and a smiling man wearing scrubs and a white coat.  "Hey, Doc," Donald says.  "Can I go home yet?"  
  
"Mister Strachey," the doctor says, then nods to Timothy.  "Are you _sure_ you don't want to talk to a social worker?  Or we have a psychologist on call..."  
  
"'m fine, Doc," Donald says, then reaches for Timothy's hand.  "I've got all I need right here," he says, then raises the hand to his mouth, dropping a gentle kiss across Timothy's knuckles.  
  
Much later that night, after the Emergency Room, the police report, promises of _not_ running off the uniformed officer that'll be at their house for the next few days, a squad car ride home, and a very hot shower, Timothy guides Donald to the bed, tucking him in before going around and crawling under the covers himself.  Timothy turns, facing Donald, and Donald raises a hand and gently strokes Timothy's face.  
  
"I'm sorry," he says, but Timothy shushes him with a kiss, then pulls the man close.    
  
When he releases of the embrace, he lays back on his pillow as Donald lays his head on Timothy's bare chest.  Timothy rubs Donald's back until he hears the man's breath even out, then leans down, planting the gentlest of kisses.  It's only then that he lets himself untense, and soon follows Donald into slumber.


End file.
